


coffinbuilders

by jockohomo



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Romance, Sad Ending, Vignette, awful people in love, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23424136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jockohomo/pseuds/jockohomo
Summary: Kimblee could go in for philosophy, Archer thinks, in another life. Or, five times Frank realized that more graced Zolf's mind than bedlam and explosions.
Relationships: Frank Archer/Zolf J. Kimblee
Kudos: 17





	coffinbuilders

**Author's Note:**

> hello, fellows! this is my first fma fic, so i hope it's alright :')
> 
> content warning for death, slight sexual references, mentions of starvation and descriptions of a very underweight character, references to the ishvalan genocide and all the fun implications that come with it, and just kimblee in general.

**i. we’re all hollow.**

“I saw you smile.”

One of the wheels of their carriage hits a misplaced stone, or a dead animal, or some other piece of junk, and Archer is jostled in his seat. For a moment, the streams of light from the street lamps distort, casting strange shadows across the two of them. 

“So you did,” Kimblee replies, golden eyes sliding to focus on Archer. There’s something animalistic lurking in that gaze; a weaker man might have shrunk away, but Archer finds himself leaning minutely towards him. “What of it, Lieutenant Colonel? Am I not allowed to smile? I knew you were stringent, but not obstructively so.”

(And yet he’s still smiling.)

“Of course not.” Archer’s voice is carefully steady, mouth straight, eyes trained to meet Kimblee’s. “I don’t care if you smile or not; I simply don’t see any cause for amusement.”

Kimblee hums and drops his voice to be quiet, conspiratorial. Archer can see his teeth flashing when he speaks, white and knife-like. “Oh, I just happened to notice that your little trinket there fell apart.” 

He gestures with his hand and Archer follows the line of indication to the gray sack resting at his side. Reminded again of its contents, Archer wipes his hand off on the threadbare fabric, looks back to Kimblee. He matches his companion’s tone and asks, “Do you know what it means?”

“It means that our friend Greed is dead,” Kimblee replies with that ever-widening smirk of his. “But you’re a sharp man, Lieutenant Colonel. Surely you could’ve figured that out on your own.”

“Perhaps.” Archer presses his lips together and crosses his arms over his chest. _Everything is falling into place, it seems._ He tilts his head back, eyes closed contemplatively, and finally says, “If you could really call what he did ‘dying’.”

“Oh?” Kimblee’s voice rises inquisitively — there’s something of a laugh in it, still. “And what do you say that for?”

“He was a homunculus,” Archer replies simply. “I doubt you can truly classify it as dying, when he was never alive in the first place. That isn’t an insult to his kind; it hardly matters whether or not they could be considered living, so long as it doesn’t impede their day-to-day functions. When they _cease_ to function, however, that’s all it is — a cessation. They cannot die because they were never truly alive. They’re hollow.”

It is quiet, for a few seconds, and then Kimblee begins to laugh.

Archer swallows, suddenly self-conscious. “That was a tangent, Crimson. I apologize. I’m not typically philosophical.”

“Oh, don’t apologize, Lieutenant Colonel,” Kimblee says in what sounds like a hiss. His voice is markedly closer than it was before. “It was an interesting insight. I’m not sure why you said it, but I don’t mind. You really are human, you know — that’s a purely human concept. This species has a peculiar habit of making ourselves out to be greater than others, of acting like life _means something_. As if life is a special thing, as if we’re special for having it. And we’re wrong, Lieutenant Colonel. That whole way of thinking is wrong. There’s nothing special about life. We’re not special. No — ”

Kimblee could go in for philosophy, Archer thinks, in another life. Then something warm spreads across his wrist, and he opens his eyes to see Kimblee’s hand gripping it, face inches away from his own. Involuntarily, the Lieutenant Colonel shivers.

“ — _We’re all hollow_.”

**ii. bone without flesh**

Archer approaches the window stiffly. The sky has darkened to black and the moon is obscured by clouds, leaving the dimly glowing street lamps with the task of lighting the wide avenues of Central City. Their performance is reliable if lackluster — reliable enough to provide a clear look outside. The area seems empty, but one can never be too certain. He tugs the curtains shut.

“Do you mind if I change?” Kimblee asks from behind him.

Archer glances over his shoulder to find the other man leaned up against the beige wall of their hotel room, as if there wasn’t a perfectly comfortable armchair right beside him. Somehow, he can’t help but feel that Kimblee has made up his mind to undress no matter what he says.

“Not at all,” he replies, and then, with a smile, “but if this is part of some attempt to seduce me, you ought to stop while you’re ahead.”

Kimblee laughs and the noise is high, scratchy. “A bit too late for that, I’m afraid.”

Despite that exchange, Archer knows well enough that Kimblee is currently devoid of ulterior motives; after all, he’d be nearer if he wasn’t. He finds himself watching anyways, because he knows well enough that Kimblee doesn’t care. It amazes him, in a horrified sort of way, all the sharp angles in the other man’s body, the shadows cast over deep crevices in his meager frame and the skin pulled tightly over bones and sinew. His time in the Devil’s Nest did him some good, but there is still that starved look to him, still the posture of an inmate. It makes Archer worry. It makes Archer want to sit him down for a long meal. 

There are plenty of people who ought to rot behind bars, but Kimblee is not one of them. Kimblee is more useful on the battlefield; Kimblee is more useful by his side.

“I know you’re watching me.” The man in question tosses his shirt lightly to the ground, back towards Archer. “Should I be creeped out?”

“Ah — sorry.” His hands linger unsurely near the buttons of his own jacket — after all, if the Crimson Alchemist is retiring for the night, then he is as well. “I was just thinking.”

“You do a lot of thinking, Lieutenant Colonel.”

“You don’t have to call me that when we’re in private.”

“You do a lot of thinking, _Archer_.”

Archer almost shudders. “It takes a lot of mental fortitude to come out of a place like Laboratory Five as anything more than a crazed lunatic, or a whimpering shell of who you used to be. Considering what you’ve been through, a lesser man would likely not be standing here today. You really are an enigma, Kimblee.”

“Ha! You don’t stand to gain anything by flattering me.”

“It’s not flattery.”

“Then you must have some guts to stand there talking to me that way.” Kimblee pulls on one of the nightshirts left folded in their shared dresser. “I don’t need praise, Archer — you know that. Anyone who’s met me knows that.”

“You don’t seem angry.”

“I’m not angry. I don’t care either way — it’s just funny.” Kimblee laughs and finally turns to face him. “You’re miles away from an everyman, yourself. Besides, if you’re going to go into the business I’m in, you have to know that there will be more people who hate you than there will be who love you.”

Archer folds his jacket neatly and places it on the side of the bed. “And now you seem almost sad.”

“It might be sad to other people — no wonder that Armstrong fellow couldn’t stand to purge the Ishvalans. He wasn’t the only one, you know. But I don’t mind it.”

“Whether you mind it or not, it won’t be an issue soon enough.” Archer smiles, half to himself. “We’ll come out of this on top, Kimblee, you’ll see. I’ve fought for glory too long to not get it. We’ll be real heroes — like you should’ve been, before.”

Kimblee laughs again. “For a pragmatist, your optimism sure is cute.”

**iii. pupils, dilated**

Archer is awakened by a sickly, animal-sounding moan.

It jolts him upright in his bed, sends his eyes straining for any signs of displacement in the darkness of their shared room. The noise seemed to be coming from somewhere inside, but he could hardly tell for certain in his state of dreaming; now that he’s conscious, the sound is gone. He licks his lips, ready to reach for the gun tucked under his bed, when the sound repeats again. This time, he can discern the source. It’s Kimblee.

And this time, his companion isn’t done. This time, the man lets out a second yell — discernible words.

“The lights!” Kimblee shrieks, and Archer hears something hit the ground with a dull _thud_. “Turn the damn lights on!”

Archer rolls out of bed, any semblance of sleep long gone. He presses his hands up against the wall until he can feel his way to the light switch, flicks it, and turns to look at the rest of the room.

If it weren’t for Kimblee’s current state, he wouldn’t have imagined that anything was amiss. Everything is just as they left it when they turned in for the night; no pieces of furniture have been overturned, no belongings rifled through. The only thing that appears disturbed is Kimblee’s bed, which seems to have had the blankets torn off of it and left knotted into a clump in the middle of the mattress. Kimblee himself is hunched over at its side, supporting himself by pressing his hands down against the wooden bed frame. His face is masked by long clumps of dark hair, and alarm bells ring in Archer’s skull.

“Kimblee?” He immediately rushes to the other man’s side and grips his shoulder, rough in his anxiety. Sweat is forming on his brow. “What’s wrong?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Kimblee audibly winces but otherwise remains rooted to the spot; he doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t move a muscle. “I’m fine. Talk to me.”

“You want me to — ?”

“Just _talk_.”

“I … Well, alright. I’m not sure what this is about. You — you mentioned not being fond of darkness, a while ago. I suppose it’s because of the Laboratory. What happened to you was — it was a travesty. Uncalled for. You’re awfully resilient to have — ”

“I don’t need _encouragement_ ,” Kimblee snaps hoarsely. “Don’t fucking treat me like a — who cares. Just talk.”

Archer pauses. It occurs to him to drop his hands and step away, but he doesn’t; he tightens his grip. “This is our last night here,” he says, finally, like it’s the most logical thing in the world. “We’ll be starting off for Liore tomorrow. After all this time, I’ve finally been promoted to Colonel — and you’ve been reinstated into the military. It’s a step in the right direction. We’ll get what we deserve soon enough. The operation will be fairly simple, really…”

His voice drones quietly into the night, carrying stories of things still undone, until Kimblee lifts his head and tells him to stop. His nerves are calmed by the silent admission that he has handled the situation, that Kimblee is fine (if shaken), that nothing has changed since a few hours ago, not considerably. Archer has dealt with it, and he will deal with Liore soon enough, and he will deal with everything else when he needs to. He will deal with it, and so will Kimblee. He will deal with it _because_ of Kimblee. Together, they are unstoppable.

And, for the night, the unstoppable Colonel insists that his unstoppable Crimson Alchemist share the bed with him.

**iv. cheek by jowl**

“Are you certain you’re ready, Kimblee?”

“Is that even a question that needs asking, Colonel?” Kimblee shoots back, grinning as he finishes buttoning his uniform. “Of course I’m ready.”

“I’ve told you before — you don’t have to call me that in private.”

“Oh, my bad. I thought you were proud of your new rank, _Archer_.” The same devilish sound is in his voice as always; it makes Archer’s skin crawl, makes his face heat up. “You’ve been acting so uncharacteristic lately — fussing over me like a worried mother. Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?”

Archer frowns. “After that tussle you got in the other night, I think I have the right to be concerned for you.”

“Oh, would you shut up about that? It was a fluke. The Elric kid caught me by surprise. It won’t happen again.” Kimblee says it like he’s trying to sound cavalier, but he’s frustrated with the whole thing; Archer can hear the tenseness in his voice. He might empathize with that frustration, but that won’t stop him from remaining obdurate.

“And you proceeded to make open threats against him in front of Mustang — after blowing up one of my men, no less. You’re lucky you have me here to cover up for you.”

Kimblee approaches him, mouth pulled down into a scowl, and leans towards him until their foreheads are almost touching. He might be skinny as death, but he’s still got a few good inches on Archer, and his eyes are narrowed dangerously. Once more, those lips twitch up into a gruesome smile. “But you’ll keep covering for me, won’t you?”

Archer tilts his head up, glaring back at Kimblee. “If you keep this up, I’m afraid I won’t be able to, and not by my own volition.”

For a moment they remain there, and Archer can feel Kimblee’s breath in his face, and he imagines that perhaps he should feel intimidated, but he does not. His skin is cool, his heartbeat only slightly faster than usual. He almost wonders how long this staring contest can go on for — and then Kimblee leans back with a harsh laugh.

“Copy that, sir. I’ll keep my head down for a bit. I should be able to have some fun today, after all.”

“If that’s how you want to think of it.” Archer smiles. “We’re standing on the precipice of something great, Kimblee. You understand that. Liore will be the beginning of a new chapter for us.”

“Sure, that too.”

“ _Kimblee_ ,” Archer says. He swallows. “You understand me, don’t you? This is only the start, but your assistance has been instrumental in getting here. I appreciate it. You might be unpredictable, but I can’t think of any man I’d rather have by my side.”

“I’m touched, truly. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were growing _fond_.”

“Maybe I am.”

Kimblee peers at him curiously, and for a second, the grin disappears from his face, replaced by something unintelligible. “You’re a funny man, Archer. I thought I’d met plenty of people like you before, but lately, I haven’t been so sure.”

“Don’t underestimate me, then.” He pauses long enough to check his watch, then glances back up to Kimblee. “It’s almost time we get going. I look forward to seeing you after Liore has been dealt with.”

“Oh, of course. I look forward to seeing you, too.”

Kimblee says it like it’s a joke, but Archer knows better. This is the closest thing to a confession he’s going to get, for now.

**v. finis**

The world turned to agony after Liore.

Archer’s entire body burns like the surface of the sun, like he’d been caught in one of Kimblee’s self-engineered explosions. The pain is the only constant he has left. At times he cannot think or count or reason or remember his own name, but the pain remains, gripping him with its claw-like fingers and laughing, always laughing. His room is dark and barren, extending upwards into forever with the only light source being a distant, solitary window, but he is hardly aware of his surroundings even at the best of times. When he dreams he sees a world bathed in red, men in uniform writhing and screaming under the muzzle of his gun, his own flesh crumbling and torn to shreds. He sees Kimblee.

He sees Kimblee, too, when he is awake — a ghost in the back of his mind, because he is usually too out of his senses to really _see_. He sees that hungry smile of his, those cruel, amused eyes, the sickly curves of his worn body. He can hear that pitiless laugh on repeat in his mind. He can see his carcass hitting the sand.

Archer smiled when his troops stormed Liore, past Kimblee’s broken corpse. What else could he do? Kimblee would have done the same thing; Kimblee would have treated it just like a change in the wind. 

A part of him — most of him, even — hadn’t fully realized that the Crimson Alchemist was gone, just like that, that their last discussion had truly been their _last_. There had been no time to realize it; there had certainly been no time to accept it. There never would be, now. It was too late. The world had turned incomprehensible around him. 

The days flow into each other and pass him by senselessly, so fast and so slow that they are hardly passing at all. He hears Kimblee in his head, again and again and again.

Eventually, the alchemists come, with their red light and their brutal hunks of metal, with more pain — a different type of pain. His head throbs and spins as his nerves connect to wires and bolts, and there is only one thought left, one striking realization as bombs go off within the confines of his mind.

_We’re all hollow._

**Author's Note:**

> the title is a sexy little reference to my boy builds coffins by florence + the machine
> 
> https://gaspardcaderousse.tumblr.com/


End file.
